


Keeping Score

by Anarfea



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, F/M, Infidelity, The Six Thatchers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9220520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: He steps in close and kisses her forehead, and she tilts her head back, offering her parted lips.This is wrong. He knows it’s wrong. But it’s also wrong that Mary, who is magnificent, who is extraordinary, should feel like she isn’t enough.





	

“John’s been texting another woman.” Mary’s tone is matter-of-fact. Her eyes don’t mist and her chin doesn’t wobble and her voice doesn’t shake. Neither does she seem inclined to murder her rival in a fit of jealous rage. Though he doubts Mary has ever been enraged when she’s committed murder.

He doesn’t know what to say. He’s deduced affairs countless times, usually with a certain cold glee at the hubris of couples who thought their marriage was somehow exempt from the balance of probability and human nature. The irony is not lost on him that he fell sway to the same delusion. Oh, he’d known that John had a gnat-like attention span when it came to relationships; there’d been such a revolving door at Baker Street that Sherlock hadn’t bothered to learn their names. But Mary was different. Sherlock had known that the night they’d met--that she was different from the others, that he’d come back too late and lost John forever.

“They’re not exactly explicit. ‘Hey.’ ‘You’re up late.’ ‘It’s been too long.’ ‘I miss you.’”

He’s not sure how he missed it. Except that he missed the truth about Mary, too, even though he’d known right from the start that nothing about her was what it seemed. He’d wanted to think the best of her, for John’s sake. That was a lie. He’d expected to hate her. Had _wanted_ to hate her. And then she’d “talked John ‘round,” brought him back into Sherlock’s world, and he’d been stupidly, hopelessly grateful. And then he’d tried to love her, for John’s sake. And then he’d loved her for reasons which had nothing to do with John.

“Do you want me to--”

“No. Don’t want you to interfere.”

“Why?”

“Because this is between John and me. I’m only telling you because I ...” the ghost of a smile plays about her lips, “needed a confidant.”

Sherlock shakes his head. Because that wasn’t the “why” he asked. He’d wanted to know why John would hurt Mary, who is perfect for him in so many ways, who understands the battlefield the way that John does and yet hasn’t been hardened by it the way that he has.

She tilts her head, as though hearing his unspoken question. “I lied to him. I shot you. I ran away to draw out Ajay. I’m pretty sure we’re still not even.”

“Love shouldn’t be about keeping score.” It’s a platitude and he knows it, speaks it with a conviction he does not feel. Because she’s right, isn’t she? Always right. John is keeping score, always has done, and Sherlock’s ledger is still in the red, probably always will be. John hasn’t forgiven him, either. For faking his death. For taking down Moriarty’s network without him. Perhaps even for letting John tie himself to Mary--not that he’s behaving like he’s tied.

Sherlock reaches out and takes the hand of this woman he’d once expected to hate, who’s been hurt by a man he still loves but increasingly doesn’t understand.

She smiles--a tight, sad thing--and squeezes his fingers.

And before he quite thinks about what he’s doing, he reaches out and brushes a curl out of her face, then traces the curve of her ear.

She closes her eyes, her breath unsteady, and tilts her head into his hand.

He steps in close and kisses her forehead, and she tilts her head back, offering her parted lips.

This is wrong. He knows it’s wrong. But it’s also wrong that Mary, who is magnificent, who is extraordinary, should feel like she isn’t enough.

He presses his lips to hers. Soft, slow, giving her the opportunity to pull away.

Her fingers work at the buttons of his coat. She opens it and slides her arms inside, around his waist. They are slight, but her grip is strong, and she clings to him. He cups the back of her head with one hand and with the other enfolds her in his coat. And then they kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

If she asks--and only if she asks--he will go to bed with her. It’s been a long time since he’s done that with anyone. Not since The Woman, that night in Karachi. He thinks he wants that, with Mary. But it has to be her choice, because if John finds out, he will never forgive them.

She breaks the kiss, and now her eyes are misted, just a little, but when she speaks, her voice still doesn’t tremble. “Can I stay the night, Sherlock?”

He nods.

And then she pulls his mouth on hers, and their kiss is hotter, this time, fiercer, and he lets his hands slide down her back to the curves of her arse, and pulls her into him. She rolls her hips into his, moaning into his mouth. And he knows--and knows that she knows--that John was never going to forgive either of them anyway.


End file.
